It sounded as if they were starting a lifetime together: November! the winter! the spring! Could she believe they would be together so long? That after each encounter there would be another chance to meet and love again?

“Massimo, Alberto’s going to give a talk in Ancona, and he says that it would be a good time to look for a place in the Marche near the sea. Then you and I can be near each other in the summer, too.”

“You have a great need for affection, haven’t you?”

Marguerite shrugged her shoulders and looked away. He smiled, caressing her: “Yes, you strong American women can do without it!” His first American, he told her; and she answered, “My first Etruscan.”

“I thought that night at Servi’s that you were cold, businesslike, arrogant,” he said. “Your face was so impassible, so resigned. Then you’d smile and it was like a flower opening.”

“You’re my sun. I keep asking myself what good I did in life to deserve these moments.”

“Esagerata!”

“No, truly. Can’t you tell what I feel for you? You are a beautiful thing for me. And now I know what I did—I waited, I never gave up hope.”

“I feel a great tenderness for you, amore.”

“Tell me.”

“I feel well with you, we go well together. In every way. Ti voglio tanto bene. I am glad to have you—physically, above all physically.”

At midnight they dressed and went out. “What will Alberto say about your coming in late?” he asked.

“I’ve already told him I’m going on a Rome-by-Night tour with some American friends.”

They walked over to Piazza Monte di Pietà, where her Fiat station wagon was parked in front of the municipal pawnshop. “This car!” he said, amused, studying the hulk with its great rusty superstructure of a baggage rack, the chrome stripped from its side by innumerable encounters in Rome traffic, the broken tail-light and bent fender, and in the back, two antique candlesticks, stuck among beach mats, hats, and odd plastic bags from supermarkets.

“It’s more like a dump truck; only a signora like you could drive it anymore.”

“Let’s go to Porta Portese, I want to sell the candlesticks and get some wood for my stove.”

“Amore mio, tesoro, there’s no one there now. I’ve told you and I’m sure—it would be impossible for something to be going on in Rome that I don’t know about.”

“Listen, Massimo, my American friend told me she got her best bargains going there on Saturday nights when everyone’s just arriving and setting up their stands for the next morning. They sit around campfires, eating and singing. It’s much better now than when the tourists go in the morning.”

“Then let’s go. Even if you won’t get more than a thousand lire for both these candlesticks. How much did you pay for them?”